Deep into the Darkness
by Orison
Summary: Companion piece to "In the Midst of the Blackest Storm". This is Sherlock's POV of the events of the same night. Post 2x03 "We Are Everyone".


**Deep into the Darkness **

_Ever yours, Jamie Moriarty_

The words stared back at him from the page, burning his mind with each glance. He could picture her as she wrote them, her neat handwriting a stark contrast to the darkness of her soul.

_Ever yours..._

Sherlock looked down at his hands, almost expecting to see the letters branded on his skin like one of his tattoos. It made perfect sense, after all. The woman still thought she owned him. Why else would she keep writing him letters?

_Yours is the only opinion I'll trust, the only point of view that holds even the faintest interest._

She was still playing with him, even from behind bars. Playing with his heart and feelings. Irene, his only meaningful connection. The one he'd been ready to follow away from New York when she'd been returned to him, even if that meant leaving the support system that had saved him from falling completely off the wagon. Irene, who had turned out to be a fantasy, dissolving into an evil mastermind before his very eyes.

Why did he feel they were still inextricably linked? Why was he unable to move on?

_I dearly hope you'll write soon._

He was glad Watson hadn't been the one to find the letter. This, and the others she'd sent. She wouldn't have been able to understand. He wouldn't have been able to explain. Not when his feelings for her were still raw. And painful. So painful.

A shiver ran down his spine. Glancing to his left, he noticed the fire in the fireplace had gone out but he couldn't tell how long he'd been sitting there, trying to make sense of a reality that was far too complicated to put into context. Becoming increasingly aware of his surroundings, he also realized that the steady drumbeat in the background was the rain pounding on the windows.

As if on cue, the room brightened with lighting. Thunderstorm. A perfect match to the turmoil raging inside him.

_"She was, to me, THE woman. To me, she eclipsed and predominated the whole of her gender."_

_"I would never kill you. Not in a million years. You may not be as unique as you thought, darling, but you're still a work of art. I appreciate art."_

_"We are...the same, you and I. We both made the same mistake. We fell in love. It made us stupid."_

_So tell me: is it possible to truly know another person? Is it even a worthwhile pursuit?_

Sherlock hunched forward and covered his face with his hands, wishing the gesture could shelter him from the outside world. He still had feelings for Irene, and he hated himself for it. Irene wasn't real. Moriarty was. And Moriarty would never be the woman that he wanted her to be. Thoughts, doubts, questions and memories were racing through his brain in rapid succession, spinning it dangerously close to overload. He hadn't experienced anything like this since his days as a junkie, and while back then it was easy to resort to drugs to quiet it down, now that he was sober he needed to find different ways.

_"Would you have preferred I'd just killed you?"_

_"Yes."_

He shot to his feet, his left hand twitching nervously at his side. The storm was raging outside, the cacophony of it grating at his already frazzled nerves as he stood across the room, trying to figure out what to do. Sleep was out of the question. Food was unthinkable as well. The mere thought of ingesting anything solid was enough to make him nauseous. Should he go upstairs hoping Watson was still awake? Should he call Alfredo? He glanced around as if looking for some kind of escape, but no answer presented itself. Sighing, he folded the letter, put it back into its envelope and into his jacket pocket, and headed downstairs.

Without turning a single light on, he made his way to the walk-in closet in the hallway between his and the guest bedroom. The space looked more like a storage unit containing a lot of different items along with the few garments he owned. Sherlock reached for the black snake-skin leather case on the highest shelf and sat on the edge of the couch, placing it on his thighs. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness and the muscles in his stomach painfully cramped with tension, he carefully opened the case and stared at the violin resting amidst red velvet.

He used to feel at peace when he played it. For once, his father's insistence had turned into something good. The one constant during his lonely adolescence and troubled adult life. Before Abigail, before Irene. It was one of the few items he had brought with him to New York when he'd left England, insisting that it also accompany him to Hemdale during rehab. The days were long in that lonely place, and he'd thought it could keep him company. When he had tried to play it, three days after entering the facility and two days after his relapse, his hands were shaking so much that he could barely hold it. That afternoon, he had sworn he'd never play the instrument again and he hadn't, not until the night Watson found it their second week together. The night he had tried to set it on fire, hoping to get rid of yet another reminder of a period of failure. The violin had survived the fire with only a few minor burns, and he had realized he was as capable of playing it as he was before his descent into drugs.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock took the violin out of the case, rested it on his shoulder and played the first notes of his favorite sonata. Music started to fill the air, slowly drowning every other sound. Time lost its meaning, and even his demons seemed to quiet down.

When he completed the first half of the partita, 14 minutes and 41 seconds later, he carefully set the violin down, eyes still closed. He felt...spent. Hollow. As if all of the tension had flowed out of him with the music.

Silence fell upon the room. The storm had finally moved forward.

_"I asked you about Irene yesterday."_

_"Her name is Moriarty."_

_"Sure. Moriarty. What she put you through, was cruel, and I don't think you've really dealt with it yet."_

She was a smart woman, his Watson. She'd solved Moriarty when his powers of deduction had failed him, allowing them to capture her while all he could do was wallow in his own anger and self-pity. He, of course, had ignored her remark, mumbling something about not wanting to submit himself to another recovery at her behest. She'd read him though. He was positive she had. She seemed to have this uncanny ability to look past his facade and into his very soul. He'd found it frightening at first. It left him exposed, something he was not accustomed to. But also exceptional, he would say. Yes. The word suited her well. He was going to tell her one of these days.

He'd heard a phrase once on one of his seven TVs, from somebody talking about their wife. A person who was very inept socially, who had people talk behind his back in a not-so-kind way. That man had referred to his wife, who was instead lovely and social, as his human credential. Because if she could stand him, then he must have some humanity within him.

As much as he considered himself self-sufficient and smarter than everyone else, Watson was his human credential. Probably the only thing that made him not crazy in so many ways. She had seen the best and the worst of him, and had decided to stay.

Watson was his friend.

Sherlock stood up and shrugged off his jacket, discarding it on the floor. Ignoring the incessant throbbing in his head, he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and strode out of the room, climbing the stairs to the second floor.

Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly antsy, he would sneak into Watson's room at night. He'd sit on the armchair at the foot of her bed and just watch her sleep. He told her was better with her. It was true. In the span of a year and a half, she'd turned his brusque, rude, know-it-all self into a more socially acceptable human being, and had asked nothing in return. Sherlock wasn't used to such kindness, and had resisted her at first, even treated her in ways she didn't deserve. But Watson had not given up on him. And he had come to care about her like he'd never cared for anyone else before.

Barely making a sound, he reached the top of the staircase and paused at her door, wondering if she too was feeling restless and insecure, and having trouble sleeping. He raised his hand to touch the knob and froze, limb resting in mid-air before dropping back down to his side. Several minutes passed, but he couldn't bring himself to go inside. If she was awake, she would most certainly ask what was troubling him, and he really wasn't in the mood to talk.

Shuffling on his feet, he backed away a step, slumped his shoulders in defeat, and continued up the stairs.

The sun crept over the city, stretching its rays across the skyline. Sherlock watched as the lights of the buildings faded to gold before resuming their natural colours, and the few remaining clouds scattered across the sky. The bees were buzzing in the background, happy to be back outside after the storm. He'd tended to them all night after hiding Moriarty's letter in the beehive along with the others. The irony of concealing her correspondence among the species he'd named after Watson was not lost to him, but it was the safest place he could think of. In time, when he was ready, he was going to share them with her.

_"I think it's sad that you've given up. I think you have a lot to offer if you cared to. I shouldn't be the only one who knows you."_

His lips curled into a small smile as the dreadful memories of the previous night gradually drifted away.

"Perhaps not. But out of all people, I'm glad it's you."


End file.
